


witcher prompt fills

by some_stars



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Bondage, Carrying, Double Anal Penetration, F/M, Femdom, Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Multi, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sensory Deprivation, Vaginal Sex, softe, tenderness.........
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: Short fills for prompts on tumblr. Tags to be updated as new ones become applicable.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 299
Kudos: 1028





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Jaskier washing Geralt's hair."

He doesn't realize how badly his shoulders hurt until he reaches back to wash his hair--or tries to, before breaking off the motion halfway through with a grunt of startled pain. It's a low sound, but of course Jaskier hears it and looks up from where he's trying to get various unpleasant juices out of Geralt's armor before they set.

"What's wrong?" he says, eyes sharp, obviously scanning Geralt for any signs of injury he might have missed. 

"It's nothing," Geralt says, more automatically than because he feels any real need to hide, by this point. And because, well, it's certainly not _something._ His arms aren't dislocated; he's not bleeding. It's just soreness, and it'll be gone by morning, and it's not a problem and he doesn't need help. He tries one more time to reach his hair, as if the situation might have changed in the last fifteen seconds, then gives up with a frown.

"Hm," Jaskier says, "nothing, right," and drags his stool over to sit behind Geralt. "Slide down for a second, your hair's not wet enough. Not with water, anyway, ugh."

This hasn't happened before, although given the trajectory they've been on--Jaskier learning how to stitch up wounds, and mend leather, and rub down his sore muscles the right way instead of the way they do it in a whorehouse--Geralt supposes he should have expected it. As with every other step along the way, he feels the need to protest; as with every other step, he doesn't protest very hard.

"I don't need help," he says, and leans back in the tub until his hair is floating and the water fills his ears. If Jaskier replies, he doesn't hear it.

Jaskier's fingers comb gently through his hair, never tugging too hard, coaxing out the worst of the filth. Then he pulls lightly on Geralt's shoulders, a suggestion only. Geralt sits up and lets Jaskier lather him up, and doesn't think about how pleasant his fingers feel as they scratch lightly across his scalp. It lasts longer than it needs to; he doesn't think about that either.

Jaskier chatters away the whole time, saying nothing of consequence--mostly working through the lyrics for the song he'll write about this epic battle, asking Geralt's opinion, seemingly satisfied with the wordless grunts he gets in return. 

"There we go," he says finally. "Now close your eyes." Geralt does, and a flood of clean water sluices down his head, rinsing out the soap. It's a little cold, but so is the bath by now, and it still feels good. 

"Are you happy now?" He means it to be annoyed, if only mildly, because that's what he should feel about all this-- _fussing._ It's how he tries to feel. The alternative is to just appreciate it, or worse, to start wanting it. He's dismayed, then, to find that his voice comes out almost fond, and a smile tugs at his mouth. He didn't realize how relaxed he was. It's a dangerous thing to lose track of.

"Oh, I'm quite content," Jaskier says lightly.

Geralt rises from the bath and turns to face him as he gets out. It is, again, no new experience for either of them. The way Jaskier looks at him, though, feels a little new. Speculative, like Geralt is a puzzle box he's one step closer to solving.

It should bother him, but it doesn't. He takes the towel Jaskier hands him and dries himself as best he can with his shoulders in their current state, then lets Jaskier dry his hair. It's nice. He likes it.

He's liked all of it. Right now, naked in this warm room and still far more relaxed than he can excuse, he can admit that to himself. 

"Thanks," he says--purely on impulse--as Jaskier finishes and tosses the towel aside. Their eyes meet, and Jaskier's are wide and surprised.

"Of course," he says, after a second, and smiles. "I live to serve."

The smile is a little askew, but it's nothing someone would notice who hasn't spent years alongside him. Jaskier is really very good, Geralt thinks, at keeping himself secret. For some reason that bothers him right now.

He dresses in fresh underclothes, and they get in bed, a respectable distance apart. Geralt falls asleep remembering the feeling of Jaskier's fingers in his hair, and imagining what Jaskier would do if Geralt rolled closer to him and touched him, just as gently.

In the morning things are normal again. His shoulders are better, as he knew they would be, and his muscles are tense again in the baseline way they always are, and Jaskier's smile doesn't have secrets behind it. It's almost disappointing.

But there'll be more baths, he thinks, with a slow curl of pleased anticipation coiling in his stomach. There'll be more evenings, and more chances.

He thinks he might take the next one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always accepting prompts [via tumblr](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/ask) for Geralt/Jaskier, OT3, or gen! If it can be written in under 1000 words it's significantly more likely I'll get to it, but please feel free to throw me whatever you like.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "Jaskier saving Geralt's life and being rewarded with kisses."

Jaskier doesn't _mean_ to jump into the fray like this. He's very experienced, at this point, at remaining firmly fray-adjacent only, close enough to chronicle all the juicy details but well back from the radius of anything's claws or jowls. It's just that the nekkers are so _many,_ and Geralt was doing fine at first but they keep leaping onto him, staggering him, as fast as he can throw them off and slice them in half. And then it seems to be over finally, and Geralt crouches down, panting a little, recovering--guard down, and the one he'd put down almost a minute ago crawls soundlessly to its feet--

If he shouts, Geralt might see it, but if he truly thinks the fight over he might just look towards Jaskier, which is entirely the wrong direction--and damn it, this is _not what he signed up for_ yet here he is, hurling his fragile human body at a snarling nekker in the hope that he can knock it flat before it sinks its teeth into Geralt's neck.

As soon as he hits the ground he rolls away, yelping frantically--"Kill it, Geralt, kill it kill it _kill it_ \--" It's not the most valiant and noble performance he's ever put on. But--as he discoveres a minute later, after Geralt has indeed killed it thoroughly and Jaskier has stumbled to his feet again, heart still racing--it seems to do the trick. At least, it does for the barmaid he'd been flirting with earlier, the alley behind whose bar they're currently standing in surrounded by dead nekkers, and who is standing framed in the back doorway, hands clutched to her chest and eyes wide.

"That was so _brave,_ " she says in a dreamy voice, and she's looking right at Jaskier. "Oh my goodness, the way you just leapt at it like that!"

"Uh," Jaskier says. This is usually Geralt's realm, when it happens at all, which it hardly ever does. "I mean, he did most of the work." He glances at Geralt, who looks, for once, just as bemused as Jaskier feels.

"Oh, that's just what witchers are supposed to do," the barmaid--what did she say her name was? Nicoline, maybe?--says with a dismissive wave of the hand. Jaskier feels mildly offended on Geralt's behalf, then significantly moreso when she goes on, "It's not like they can even feel fear, they're not _brave._ "

"Well, that's not fair," Jaskier says, or starts to say, but is rather soundly stopped by maybe-Nicoline flinging herself into his arms and kissing him. He staggers a little from the impact and only kisses back for a second, on instinct, before disentangling himself.

She frowns. "I thought you wanted...?"

He had, in an idle way. She was quite pretty, and she'd laughed at his jokes. But now the thought of bedding her makes him wrinkle his nose.

It's not the most tactful way to say no, and he probably deserves the name she calls him, scowling, as she turns and flounces back into the bar, leaving him and Geralt alone again in the dim alleyway.

"Don't think I've ever seen you turn down an offer like that," Geralt says at last. "You were all over her before."

"Yes, well," Jaskier says, "anyone can make an error in judgement. She's obviously a terrible judge of character."

"Don't tell me you turned her down to defend my honor," Geralt says, and he definitely sounds amused. There's even a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jaskier finds himself a little lost for words, because...it was an odd thing to do, wasn't it? He hadn't been thinking about it that way, when he'd made a face at her. It was just that he hadn't wanted her anymore. Because...

"I am an _extremely_ loyal friend, I'll have you know," he says, and puffs himself up a little. "And I've worked tirelessly to defend your honor for years now. It's basically my whole job at this point."

"Hmm," Geralt says, still half-smiling, "if you say so," and he turns and starts down the alley, back toward the street.

Jaskier follows him a second later, still feeling off-balance, still not certain why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always accepting prompts [via tumblr](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/ask) for Geralt/Jaskier, OT3, or gen! If it can be written in under 1000 words it's significantly more likely I'll get to it, but please feel free to throw me whatever you like.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "secretly fae!jaskier rips out someone’s throat with his little needle teeth and poor Geralt realizes 'oh no he’s hot' GIVE ME FERAL PROTECTIVE JASKIER." This is not quite all of that, but hopefully hits the main points!

So, the strategy of "let them put the chains on to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, then get out of them later when you're not so heavily guarded" hasn't really worked out. They hadn't _looked_ magical, but really, he should just expect this kind of thing by now. 

For the tenth time in as many minutes, Geralt takes stock of his situation. He's kneeling on a dirt-covered stone floor somewhere, hands bound behind his back. He's blindfolded--that had happened after they'd cuffed him, and had been when he realized that actually, he _couldn't_ just brute-force his way out of this, because he'd certainly tried. And he's alone.

He hopes, not for the first time, that they haven't hurt Jaskier. They were only after Geralt, but Jaskier had protested them taking him vociferously enough to earn himself a punch to the gut as Geralt frantically shot him a glare that said _shut up and sit down, I'll be fine._ Which, all right, has turned out to be something of a lie. But it had seemed to work at the time, because Jaskier had subsided and just watched, eyes hot with anger, as Geralt had been chained and taken. 

There's a creak of a door opening, and as if Geralt's thoughts had summoned him, Jaskier stumbles through the doorway, footsteps tripping over each other as if he's been shoved. Geralt's heart sinks, even as some traitorous small part of him is glad not to be alone in the dark anymore. He's pretty sure he knows what they want from him--something about using his magical energy as a source, via some arcane process that will undoubtedly kill him--but there's no reason for them to take Jaskier, not unless he's made himself an obstacle. Which, Geralt thinks with a sigh, he obviously has.

"Geralt! Oh, thank the gods, you're all right," Jaskier babbles, and then suddenly he's right next to him, hands on his face. Geralt flinches reflexively, but Jaskier's fingers only tug at the blindfold. Unfortunately, it doesn't move.

"Oh, don't tell me this is magic too," Jaskier says bitterly. "I've had _quite_ enough magic for one day already."

"Damn it," Geralt growls, "what are you doing here? Why didn't you run?"

"I wasn't going to _leave_ you," Jaskier says, sounding honestly offended. "What do you take me for?"

"Someone with an ounce of sense," Geralt says, "but apparently I was wrong."

"It's like you don't know me at all," Jaskier says, sitting down next to him. "After all these years." He leans against Geralt, and even though Geralt knows his presence here almost certainly means his death, the warmth is comforting. "Anyway," Jaskier continues, "I have a plan."

"What is it?"

"Well." He hesitates. "It doesn't actually involve you doing much. Seeing as how you can't right now. So I think if I tell you, it's just going to cause you undue stress."

" _Jaskier._ "

"All right, fine. They didn't search me for any more weapons, after they disarmed me and threw me in here."

"Disarmed--you _attacked_ someone?"

Jaskier shifts against Geralt, clearly making himself more comfortable. "We don't need to get into the details. The point is, I have a dagger, and sooner or later someone with the power to unlock those cuffs is going to show up. You and your brilliant strategic mind can put together the rest."

It's not the worst plan he's ever heard--he doubts any of their captors view Jaskier as much of a threat--but, "It won't work," he says. "Why would they set me free? They're just going to assume I'll kill them as soon as I'm unbound."

"Well, obviously you have to promise not to," Jaskier says, as if this is reasonable.

Geralt sighs, and doesn't argue further. 

It's almost an hour before he hears footsteps outside. By the time they're at the door, Jaskier clearly hears it too, leaping to his feet. "Okay," he says, and his voice is shaking a little, "just--I've got this. Just act like I'm not here."

He walks a short distance away, towards the door--he's going to get behind it as it opens, Geralt realizes. Not a terrible idea. 

The person who enters the room stinks of powerful magic, and whatever small shred of hope Geralt has been harboring withers away. Jaskier's not skilled enough with a dagger to kill with one blow; even if he lands a mortal wound, the mage will have time to fight back, and Jaskier doesn't stand a chance. 

"How have you been enjoying our hospitality?" the mage asks, his voice syrupy with sweetness and poison. "I know it's--"

He hears Jaskier move, and the sound of the dagger entering flesh, and the mage's low, shocked grunt of pain. Despite knowing it's useless, he struggles to get free, because he doesn't want to hear what comes next. He can't hear it, can't hear Jaskier die, has heard it too many times in his nightmares already--

"You nasty little sneak," the mage says in a voice lined with pain and hatred in equal measure. There's a rustling, a yelp of pain--Jaskier--and the clatter of the dagger hitting the floor. "Did you really think you c--" 

What follows is a scream of pain and shocked terror that sends a chill down Geralt's spine. Then in the almost silence after it fades, he hears--flesh tearing. Wet sounds. Someone spitting. And a body thumping heavily to the floor.

"Jaskier?" He doesn't even try to control the fear in his voice. "Jaskier!"

Someone coughs, then retches. Geralt pulls at the chains as hard as he can and, abruptly, they break. He reaches up and tears at the blindfold; it slides off easily. 

Jaskier is alive, and the mage is dead. That's all he sees at first, and relief washes over him in a golden wave that almost makes him dizzy. Then he looks closer, sees the blood splashed across Jaskier's face, the red glint of his teeth as he pants, crouching, and spits again.

The mage's eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling of the cell. His throat is...Geralt sees a flash of muscle and windpipe and looks away. 

"Fuck," Jaskier says hoarsely, and finally looks at him. His eyes are wide and glittering, and he looks for all the world like a wild animal, something feral and vicious, hunched over its kill.

Then he wipes a shaking hand across his mouth and sits down hard, and he's just Jaskier again, and Geralt goes to him. Wraps him in his arms and lets him tremble and curse, until he seems, if not okay, stable. It seems like a long time, but it's no more than a couple minutes, and then Jaskier steps away and takes a deep breath.

"Told you it was a good plan," he says. His bloodstained lips tilt into something close to a grin, and without meaning to even slightly Geralt closes the distance between them again and kisses him, tasting copper. Jaskier kisses back fiercely and instantly, not seeming surprised, which is odd, because Geralt is certainly surprising himself.

"Thank you," Geralt says, low and serious, lips moving against Jaskier's. Jaskier's hands on his face tighten.

"Anything for you," he says. "Now let's get the hell out of here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always accepting prompts [via tumblr](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/ask) for Geralt/Jaskier, OT3, or gen! If it can be written in under 1000 words it's significantly more likely I'll get to it, but please feel free to throw me whatever you like.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "It turns out their expertises are wearing off on each other....Jaskier accidentally knowing some deep cut monster lore, Geralt being absolutely scathing about a bad performance by another bard." I only managed the second half, alas.

The job was finished by late afternoon, but Jaskier convinced Geralt they should stay at the inn for one more night. The mattresses in this establishment were particularly soft, and although the innkeeper wouldn't let Jaskier play--he had a nephew, or something, who fiddled and who would resent being booted out for a more popular visitor--the food was good enough that he didn't mind taking a break. 

He was enjoying both the food and the music at the moment--well, he was enjoying the food, a lovely rich stew thick with chicken shreds and redolent of red wine. The music was more irritating than anything, but at least he had his back to the man so he didn't have to watch him abuse his poor instrument. It wasn't _terrible_ or anything, nothing that would set cats to squawking and children to crying, but it was decidedly amateur, and his singing would have gotten him laughed out of any bardic academy. 

Jaskier wasn't exactly dwelling on it, far more focused on the stew and the promise of goosedown pillows upstairs, so when he saw Geralt pause, spoon halfway to his mouth, and grimace at something over Jaskier's shoulder, he didn't immediately know what he was frowning at.

"What is it?" he asked. Geralt grunted, and his face immediately assumed a neutral cast again.

"Nothing."

"No, no, come on," Jaskier said. "Now I'm curious. Why the sour puss? The hunt went well, you got paid in full, and this stew is truly magnificent. I simply must know what's ailing you."

Behind him, the fiddler dove headlong into an ill-constructed bridge. Jaskier's eye twitched. So did Geralt's.

"He's pitchy," Geralt muttered. "It's irritating."

"Pitchy," Jaskier repeated. "Since when are you a music critic?"

Geralt shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. "It's obvious, isn't it? You don't like him either."

"No, of course I don't, because he's wretched, but I've never noticed you caring about music one way or the other." 

"Just because I don't care doesn't mean I can't tell when it's bad," Geralt said--and then, as if unable to hold it back, "He's holding the bow wrong, too. His wrist won't last another year like that."

The words rang a bell; Jaskier suddenly remembered that time almost--what, six months ago?--that they'd stopped to watch a street performer and he'd made the same remark, albeit he'd done it to the musician in question's face and nearly started a brawl. 

"You've been _listening_ to me," he said, smiling.

Geralt looked more than a little uncomfortable now. "You talk so much I can't help it," he muttered, staring down at his stew.

"I can't believe you actually listen to me," Jaskier said. "About music, no less. Well, go on, then," and he put his spoon down and steepled his fingers on the table, "what did you think of _my_ last performance? Now that I know you're an educated audience."

His last performance had been a rendition of his latest song done more or less in Geralt's direction while the other man bathed and appeared to ignore him. Jaskier had thought, though, that he'd spied a certain relaxation in his shoulders as Jaskier played, a slight easing of tension in his jaw. Maybe he hadn't been making it up.

Geralt sighed and shoveled more stew into his mouth. "Fishing for compliments," he said as he chewed, "is not attractive."

"So it would have been a compliment," Jaskier said, beaming.

"Well, it was better than whatever this poor bastard is doing," Geralt said, apparently worn down enough now to say something nice.

The poor bastard in question hit, or tried to hit, a high note, and they both flinched in unison. 

"Ugh, hurry up and eat," Jaskier said. "When we get upstairs I'll play you something nice, get the bad taste out of your mouth. Well, out of your ears. The taste in my mouth is fantastic."

Geralt grunted, but ate faster, and Jaskier, delighted, did the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always accepting prompts [via tumblr](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/ask) for Geralt/Jaskier, OT3, or gen! If it can be written in under 1000 words it's significantly more likely I'll get to it, but please feel free to throw me whatever you like.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Jaskier teaching Geralt how to suck his dick exactly the way he likes it." Content notes: explicit sex, D/s, praise kink

"Hm," Jaskier said.

Geralt stopped, pulled his mouth off of Jaskier's cock, and looked up at him. Jaskier supposed it hadn't been the most enthusiastic of sounds.

"What?" Geralt said. 

"Well," Jaskier said, "it's just. You're moving kind of fast there. You could slow it down a bit."

Geralt looked unimpressed. "I don't usually get feedback when I'm doing this."

Which, well, that was honestly kind of sad, and was certainly going to have to change if they were ever going to do this again. "Come on," Jaskier said, and on a fond whim reached down and stroked his hair, sliding his fingers through it. "Don't you want to do a good job for me?"

Geralt drew in a sharp breath, and for a second Jaskier thought maybe he'd irritated him further. But then he licked his lips, and tilted his head ever so slightly into Jaskier's hand. "Okay," he said, and waited, watching. 

Jaskier felt a little zing of satisfaction at the sight of him. "So, don't just dive in. Start slow. Give it a stroke, a few licks." Geralt took him in hand and he added, "A little looser, at first."

The grip around him loosened to just the right side of teasing, and Jaskier sighed in pleasure. Geralt stroked up and down a couple times, then--holding Jaskier's gaze as he leaned in--licked slowly up from the base, flicking his tongue over the head. 

Jaskier gave a soft gasp, and without thinking tightened his fingers in Geralt's hair, only to hear a matching inhalation. "Yeah, that's good," he said, as his half-hard cock started to rise to full prominence. 

A faint flush bloomed on Geralt's cheeks at his words, and wasn't _that_ interesting. He gave an experimental tug and Geralt's eyes slipped closed as he pulled against it slightly, like he was trying to feel it more. Jaskier felt his stomach twist with the sudden shot of heat it sent through him.

"Do that for a minute," he said, a little less gently this time. Geralt dragged his tongue up his cock again, and this time swirled his tongue slowly over the head, sucking for just a second before pulling off again. Jaskier let out a shaky breath as he did it again. "Oh, _very_ good," he said, and the soft sound that Geralt made in response--fuck.

"Okay," he said, slightly breathless, after another wet kiss to the tip of his cock. "Okay, now you can put it in your mouth. Go down slowly, nice and wet."

He kept a tight grip on Geralt's hair as he watched his lips encompass him and sink lower, though it was hard to keep his eyes open as the wet heat steadily swallowed him up. Geralt started bobbing up and down, picking up the pace, and Jaskier pulled him up with a harsh tug.

" _Slow,_ " he said, sharply. Geralt--fuck, _moaned,_ a quiet short sound but unmistakable, and suddenly Jaskier thought maybe he wouldn't mind going faster. But he liked this, whatever it was--even more than he had expected to like it--and Geralt obviously did too. So he just said, "Now try again," and watched the little shiver run down Geralt's back, and felt almost helpless at how much it aroused him.

Geralt did try again, sinking down slowly about halfway before leisurely pulling back, then down again a little further. He kept it up for another minute or so, and Jaskier let himself enjoy it fully. It had been--god, years since he'd had someone suck him off just the right way. Usually he didn't feel quite comfortable enough to insist, bowing in the face of his partners' desires; he liked to please people, mostly, and so much of sex was about appealing to people's egos, after all. But with Geralt--this was new, this thing between them, or newly admitted at any rate, yet Jaskier felt absolutely confident with him. It was the kind of feeling, he reflected, that could ruin him for other lovers--if the quiet, desperate little sounds Geralt was making around his cock didn't ruin him first. 

"Can you take the whole thing?" he asked, and thrust up just a little, just enough to feel the squeeze of Geralt's throat around him for a second. Just enough to push, and he was rewarded with another moan, a terribly _hungry_ sound. Geralt looked up at him and nodded, lips still stretched around him. Jaskier stroked his face softly, fingers lingering over the bulge in his cheek as Geralt watched him with dark eyes.

"Go on, then," he said expectantly. "Show me."

Permission granted, Geralt wasted no time. He slid his mouth down, throat opening up expertly as he swallowed Jaskier completely, and oh, _this_ he knew how to do.

"Fuck, you're _good_ at that," Jaskier said, breathless. He pulled at his hair a little more, just for the way it made the flush on his cheeks deepen. Or maybe that was from being praised again, which he obviously liked, and which Jaskier was happy to continue. "So good," he said, guiding Geralt's head up, then down again, shuddering at the way he just _went,_ pliant and happy. "Oh, you're doing so good, fuck..."

Geralt bobbed up and down a minute more, keeping his pace sedate even as he repeatedly filled his throat with Jaskier's cock, moving loose and easy. Finally Jaskier couldn't stand it anymore, and he gasped, "Can I--let me fuck your mouth," and the noise Geralt made was so clearly assent that Jaskier almost came right then. He thrust forward, holding Geralt in place by his hair, and the look on his face was almost serene, positively blissful as Jaskier fucked into him hard.

That was the end of thought, mostly, but he did his best to keep talking. "That's good," he said, watching intently, "good, fuck, oh--" He gasped, feeling himself barrel closer to the edge. "Good, you _good_ boy, good for me," words falling out of his mouth that he didn't plan, but Geralt whimpered and shifted until he was up on his knees, hand between his legs, and holy fuck but that was hot, how much he _loved_ this, loved Jaskier fucking his face and praising him for taking it. It was almost disappointing when he felt his orgasm approaching inexorably.

"I'm going to come," he panted, and then--feeling a little like he was jumping off a cliff, but also that deep certainty--added, "You're going to swallow," and Geralt's hips jerked hard as he let out a muffled moan. That was all it took; he pulled Geralt down one last time and held him there as he came hard enough to leave him dazed afterward.

He kept it together enough, at least, to pant out, "No, don't," as Geralt's hand started to move faster. Geralt stopped instantly and Jaskier felt his spent cock give a valiant attempt to come again. "Get up here," he said. Geralt crawled up alongside him with startling grace, and Jaskier started to stroke him, other arm going around him and pulling him close. 

"That was so good," he murmured, and kissed Geralt's parted lips, pulling back before Geralt could deepen it. "You did such a good job, and you liked it so much, didn't you?"

"Yes," Geralt said, voice rough and breathless, as he fucked into Jaskier's tight grip, clinging to him. "Yes..."

"You can do it anytime you want." Jaskier had sort of lost track of his tongue at this point, but the words were still coming. "You were so good for me. Would you like that? Would you like to suck my cock again, do it just the way I like it?"

" _Yes,_ " Geralt said, choked, and came all over Jaskier's hand and belly with a groan that sounded almost pained. Jaskier did kiss him then, couldn't not, and kept stroking him until he shifted away, and then he rolled on top of him and kissed him some more.

Geralt kissed back like he was starving. They kept at it for a minute or two, until finally Geralt pulled back and said, "We're going to get stuck together if you don't move."

"That is not romantic at _all,_ " Jaskier told him, but he rolled off anyway, grimacing a little at the sticky mess between them. He reached over to the nearby chair where he'd left his towel after his bath earlier, and gently cleaned them both. Geralt seemed content to let him, and Jaskier felt a sudden and great wave of tenderness towards him. 

"Thank you," he said, quietly. 

Geralt looked at him, eyebrows raised. "For sucking your cock?"

"You know for what." Jaskier nestled up against him again, and planted a soft kiss in the crook of his shoulder. Geralt's arms settled around him and he closed his eyes, contented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always accepting prompts [via tumblr](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/ask) for Geralt/Jaskier, OT3, or gen! If it can be written in under 1000 words it's significantly more likely I'll get to it, but please feel free to throw me whatever you like.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "After they've all gotten together, yen and jaskier hanging out for the first time without geralt present?" Which turned into pillow talk with feelings. Basically Yennskier, in an OT3 context.

She woke to Geralt slipping quietly out of bed, and for a moment she was confused, because she could still feel the distinct presence of a masculine body at her back, snugged up against her. 

Then she remembered, and for the first time in a terribly long time she felt almost flustered. She sat up, and said--softly, so as not to wake him-- "Are you sure you won't need any help?"

Geralt shook his head. "It's weakest at dawn. I'll be fine." He spoke just as softly, and when he looked at her she could see how much he wanted to get back in bed with them.

She gave him a smile. "See that you are," she said. "And hurry back."

She watched him finish putting on his armor, and then the door closed behind him, and she was alone with Jaskier. They hadn't been, she realized, and it felt strange. After all, the two of them had become rather intimate only a few hours before. And yet they'd never had a conversation, not without Geralt there to buffer them.

Well. Time to remedy that, clearly. She lay back down, turning on her side so they were facing each other, and looked at him for a minute, thinking. For all that he had a boyish face, and probably would until he died, he hid a man's figure under those silk doublets and brocaded trousers. That he was an attentive lover hadn't been a surprise, considering his reputation. And yet she had been surprised, because--because she hadn't expected to _want_ him. She'd expected to allow him, perhaps even to enjoy his presence in bed the way she had come to enjoy it elsewhere, for all that she was loath to admit it. 

She had thought they would keep Geralt firmly between them, but that hadn't been how it had happened at all.

Contemplation grew dull, and she reached out and gently--but not too gently--tweaked his nose. He sputtered awake indignantly and she held back a grin.

"Good morning," she said, and was pleased to see him cycle through the same "wait, what, who, _oh_ " realization she'd had before. 

"Uh, good morning," he said, and looked around with only a hint of worry on his face.

"Geralt went to fight the wraith," she informed him, and enjoyed the way he shifted uncomfortably.

"Ah! So I have the pleasure of your sole company, then. That's...that's nice."

She cocked one eyebrow. "I should hope so."

"Let me try that again. Yennefer, it is my absolute pleasure to be alone with you this lovely morning after, assuming you're not going to decide you regret sharing Geralt with me and take revenge by turning me into a worm."

"I take much more interesting revenge than that."

"I...don't know what that means? I'm a little afraid? Possibly in a good way?" He looked at her searchingly. "Give me something to work with, here. Good mood? Bad mood?"

"Good," she said, taking pity on him and smiling. "For some reason, I find myself in a very good mood this morning."

He beamed. "Would it be arrogant of me to assume that I had a hand in that?"

"Well," she said, "you had a tongue in it, at any rate."

He spluttered. " _Yennefer._ I am scandalized."

"What, you can do it but I can't talk about it?" On a whim, she traced a finger down the side of his face. "And I didn't think anything could scandalize you."

"Well, most of the women I eat out don't talk about it afterward," he said, regaining his composure as quickly as he'd lost it. "But hey, that means this is a great opportunity for a performance review. Any notes?"

"Hmm." She furrowed her brow and pretended to consider. "You were perhaps a little over-eager, to begin."

"I can hardly be blamed for it. I didn't think I'd get to touch you, much less..." His tongue flicked out briefly, and it didn't seem like a lascivious gesture so much as an unconscious one. She'd seen him do it before, when he was at a loss for words--when insulting her, once upon a time. When trying awkwardly to be courteous, more recently.

She shouldn't have found it so charming. She shouldn't have found anything about him so charming, just because he happened to be very good at oral sex. It was a less common skill among men, but hardly rare. And yet here she was, struggling not to touch his face again.

"You know," she said, changing the subject, "it occurred to me this morning that we've never had a real conversation, just the two of us."

"Haven't we? No, I suppose we haven't." He sat up, leaning against the headboard. It was rather pleasant, to look up at him like this. "Well then, what would you like to discuss? Politics? Poetry? Not magic, I hope, I'm frightfully ignorant on the subject."

"Magic is boring," she said. "Tell me...tell me what you'd want, if you could have anything."

"Going right for the heavy stuff, I see," he said, but he didn't seem bothered by it. "I'd want...well, I'd want to stop waking up every other morning with a crick in my neck, for one thing."

She lifted a hand to the side of his neck and raised her eyebrows questioningly. His eyes widened.

"Can you really? _Yes,_ please, go ahead."

She concentrated for a moment, and felt the knot under her fingertips ease. A startled smile spread across his face and the tiny lines that had settled around his mouth vanished.

"Gods, that's amazing. Thank you." He said it fervently, like she'd done some great and noble service for him, and it made her feel strange and warm inside.

"Come on now," she said, "answer me for real. What do you want?" It surprised her, how much she wanted to hear the answer. She'd thought the question was just something to waste time, but now it felt important.

"I...honestly, I don't know." His hand slipped into hers, and she let it; he wasn't looking at her, but out into the distance. "I mean, for a long time, the answer was..."

"Geralt."

"Yeah," he said, and smiled wryly. "But then I had that. And then it was for him not to pick you over me, and that solved itself rather nicely too."

"You must want something else," she said, thumb tracing little circles over his wrist. "To be the greatest poet on the continent, perhaps."

He lifted his chin. "I _am_ the greatest poet on the continent."

"Wealth, then? A manor and an estate?"

He shook his head. "I don't want anything, truly." Almost shyly, he glanced at her. "I'm just very, very happy."

"That's...good," she said, and felt suddenly awkward for no clear reason. Now, of course, he would ask her the same thing. She stared at the ceiling and waited.

He didn't, though. He watched her--she could feel it--and as the silence stretched out, she thought about dipping into the surface of his thoughts, just to see. But she held herself back, because she doubted Jaskier would like it any better than Geralt did, and no matter that he, unlike Geralt, wouldn't know.

Finally she couldn't take it any longer. "Aren't you going to ask me?" she said. "What I want?" She looked up at him, and found a softness in his gaze that unsettled her and soothed her in equal measure.

"You didn't seem like you wanted me to," he said. As if it were as simple as that. She frowned.

"But don't you want to know?"

"Terribly," he said, and--slowly--tangled his fingers in her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp, making it tingle pleasantly. "But I can wait."

She wanted him then, suddenly, in a way that had nothing to do with his skillful showing the night before. "You may be patient," she said, and pulled him down beside her, "but I'm not. I want to see if your cock performs as well as your mouth. Are you up for it?"

His eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. "In every sense of the word, my dear," he said, and when she kissed him he opened up for her beautifully, just like he had last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always accepting prompts [via tumblr](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/ask) for Geralt/Jaskier, OT3, or gen! (Or Yennskier apparently.) If it can be written in under 1500 words it's significantly more likely I'll get to it, but please feel free to throw me whatever you like.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not for a prompt, but not quite a real full fic so it goes here: some Yennskier smut! Content notes: D/s, dom!Yennefer and sub!Jaskier, bondage, orgasm control/denial. (Please assume prior discussion/consent for all activities contained herein.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to edit this into more of a fic, with a proper beginning and no shifting POV, but then I thought, why bother, it's great as it is.

She ties his hands to the bed one night--which is not unusual--and tells him that he’s not going to come until he’s made her come three times. She starts by sitting on his face, of course, and he eagerly does his best to get her off; she grinds down hard as she comes the first time, all over his face, until he’s gasping for breath when she finally pulls away. By this time, he’s been hard for a while, and she sinks easily down onto his cock and rides him, fast and hard, to her second orgasm.

She stops at two, most nights, because it generally satisfies her, and it’s usually more work than it’s worth to go for a third. But she keeps fucking him, and now with her own edge taken off she can really focus on doing everything she knows he likes--clenching tight around him as she bounces at just the right pace, leaning forward and resting one hand possessively on his throat with a little squeeze--and before long he loses control and, just as she’s starting to work herself back up to the peak, comes with a strangled _fuck!_ , dripping with sweat and almost crying from the effort of holding it back and the sudden release.

She waits for him to finish, then climbs off him, fixing him with a frown. “I’m disappointed, Jaskier," she says sternly. "I thought you were going to be good for me.”

He shivers under her gaze, still half-dazed from coming and dizzy with delicious shame. He babbles a fervent apology, promises to try harder next time, to make it up to her.

She holds up one finger and he falls silent. Then she starts to bring herself off, making sure to put on a bit of a show. It doesn’t take long, because she was so close, and she watches Jaskier’s face as she comes, loving the way he can’t look away, the hunger in his eyes even when he’s just been satisfied.

When she’s finished, she rolls her shoulders back and smiles at Jaskier. “You did try hard, didn’t you,” she says, and he nods frantically. “I forgive you, darling.” She cups his face, thumb tracing over his cheekbones. “But I am going to have to punish you.”

He gazes up at her with utter devotion, even as his stomach twists in apprehension. He’s not sure what to expect as punishment--a caning, maybe, which she knows he hates--but instead of getting up to fetch it, she just shifts to the other end of the bed and settles between his legs...and spends the next hour taking him apart, licking him open and fingering him and sucking him off with all her considerable skill. Until he’s fully hard again, cock straining and desperate, and he’s completely forgotten the threat of punishment, so lost in the pleasure she’s giving him and the nigh-unbearable urge to come.

Which is when all the touching stops, and she rolls over to the other side of the bed and gets under the covers. “Goodnight, darling,” she says, with a genuinely loving smile, only a hint of wickedness showing through.

He stares at her, panting mouth hanging open, still dazed with need. She watches as the situation slowly dawns on him and he lets out an anguished whine. The sound of it--the desperation in it--makes her cunt start to throb again. She lies back against the pillow and sighs contentedly as she slips one hand between her legs, pressing lazily at her clit.

“ _Yennefer,_ ” he groans, hips squirming aimlessly like he just can’t hold still. “Please...I’ll be good, I promise, just please let me come--”

She tsks and brings her other hand to bear on her cunt, slipping two fingers inside herself. “Good boys take their punishment with no whining,” she reminds him. “Although you do sound so pretty when you beg...”

He doesn’t say anything else--he _does_ try to be good for her, her lovely boy--but his soft whimpers and helpless moans accompany her to a final climax. 

When she feels like moving again, she can’t resist tapping his parted lips with her dripping wet fingers. His cock, still standing thoroughly to attention, twitches and he groans loudly, but muffled, as he sucks them into his mouth and licks them clean.

“Very good,” she tells him, and enjoys his shiver of happiness in response. “Now, I can’t very well leave you tied up all night, but I know how hard it would be for you not to touch yourself. So--” She hovers her hand above his cock and murmurs a few words under her breath. “There you go,” she says, and gives it a friendly stroke that makes him buck his hips up with a choked gasp. “No more orgasms until morning, and no temptation.”

As she undoes the ropes around his wrists, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Thank you,” he croaks, looking anything but grateful. She smiles and kisses him and he kisses back eagerly. Then she lies back down and rolls over, her back to Jaskier, and lets the sound of his uncomfortable shifting and frustrated breathing lull her to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Yen and Geralt are super turned on by Jaskier unexpectedly helping save them in a fight, and post-battle adrenaline leads to fun." Content notes: explict sex (m/f and m/m).

He doesn't _mean_ to get involved with the fight. He's really quite comfortable observing these things from a safe distance, despite Geralt's grousing about him getting in the way. But when one of the soldiers gets a lucky hit that sends Yennefer to the ground and tears Geralt's attention away, and a fifth one approaches from behind the tree Jaskier is perched and hidden in, raising his crossbow—well, there's really nothing to _do_ but leap directly onto the man's head like a leopard ambushing its prey. Although a leopard probably wouldn't scream at quite such a high pitch as it leapt.

He honestly doesn't hope to do more than distract the soldier long enough for Geralt to do—well, something—but his weight combined with the surprise topples the man flat, and then, well, he does have his dagger in his hand, and suddenly he's sitting on top of a dying man. It's not exactly pleasant, but the adrenaline overpowers any sense of revulsion for the moment.

He barely has time to realize what he's done before Geralt is swinging his sword with a roar in an arc that takes out the last two soldiers. Yennefer pushes herself up to hands and knees, eyes squeezed shut in pain, and Geralt runs to her, kneeling in front of her.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, one hand skimming over her head where the blow landed. She winces and pulls away.

"I'll be fine," she snaps. "Just let me—" She draws in a deep breath and murmurs something in Elder speech, and he watches her shoulders straighten as the pain drops away. Geralt sits back, looking relieved.

"So, uh," Jaskier says, and their heads both turn abruptly toward him. "I know I said I wouldn't get involved, but, well." He gestures at the man who, he realizes, he's still sitting on top of. With only slightly shaky legs, he stands up and goes to join them, bloody dagger in hand.

" _Jaskier,_ " Yennefer says, eyes wide and—gratifyingly—worried.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Geralt growls, which is how Jaskier knows he's also worried. 

They both descend on him, patting him down for injuries as he protests that he's _fine,_ he got the drop on the guy, it was actually really impressive— "He was going to kill you," he says as Geralt frowns, "he had a crossbow and you weren't looking, I couldn't just _let_ him."

They both look at him then in a way that—well, he doesn't usually associate it with being covered in blood (apparently neck wounds spray a _lot_ ).

"So," he continues, a little warily, "I know you don't like it when I get involved in fights, but I think some thanks might not go amiss?"

There's a long moment as they look at each other, exchanging some silent communication that he can't decipher, and then back at him in a way that he absolutely can decipher, but very much did not expect.

"Thank you, Jaskier," Yennefer says—purrs, really—and seizes his mouth in a devouring kiss. He drops his dagger, startled, and a second later he feels Geralt behind him, huge and heavy and enveloping.

"Thank you," Geralt murmurs, lips tickling his ear. Apparently the adrenaline hasn't worn off for them either.

When Yennefer lets him breathe again, Jaskier says, "Not that I object, but could we maybe go somewhere without so many dead bodies lying around? Just, you know, the mood."

Geralt _hm_ s in a way that indicates he, personally, has no such compunctions. Yennefer steps back, waves a hand and makes a complicated motion with her fingers, and murmurs something under her breath, and suddenly the clearing is empty. The grass is still bloodstained, but, well, one can't have everything, Jaskier decides, and happily lets them pull him down to the ground (in a dry patch, thankfully).

He's been the focus of both their attentions before—he's more amenable to that than either of them, however much they always end up enjoying it when he can coax them to let him spoil them—but never with quite this intensity. They team up to undress him with blinding speed, Yennefer on top and Geralt on his trousers, and he definitely hears fabric tear but it doesn't seem worth complaining about when Yennefer shoves him flat on his back and swings a leg over him, hiking up her skirts and grinding her slick cunt against his cock as it rapidly hardens.

"Fuck," he mutters, almost dazed with the speed of it all. He reaches up to touch her, wanting to ground himself somehow (and also just to touch her breasts, which are magnificent even clothed and he will _never_ get enough of), but she shakes her head sharply.

"Hold him," she says, looking over at Geralt, who is watching with evident hunger in his golden eyes. Jaskier lets out an undignified sort of gurgle as heat spikes through his stomach and his cock stands fully to attention.

In the blink of an eye Geralt is behind him, tugging his arms over his head, holding his wrists in an iron grip that Jaskier simply has to tug against, just for the pleasure of failing to move even a single inch. Which is when Yennefer shifts, rises up on her knees, and sinks down onto him, wet heat embracing his cock in a tight clasp that makes his hips buck up into her helplessly.

Usually when they're fucking him he talks, at least until he can't anymore—pleas, swears, stupid jokes, whatever nonsense happens to pour out of his mouth. It's just how he is, but right now all he can do is gasp for air and stare at Yennefer as she rides him fast and hard, at Geralt's eyes fixed unswervingly on his face, and moan loudly as they take him apart.

It doesn't last long—he supposes adrenaline rushes will do that—before Yennefer is shouting wordlessly and clenching tight around him, before he grinds his hips up against hers and comes inside her with his eyes fixed on Geralt's fiercely intent gaze. She topples off gracelessly and lies beside him, panting.

Geralt lets him go then, and Jaskier tugs at his arm. "Come on, come here," he says, pulling him down—not that he can actually pull him, of course, but the request is clear enough, and Geralt joins them on the ground. A glance at his trousers makes it clear that Jaskier's work is not done here. He rolls over on top of Geralt and kisses him, and it's as though he hit some kind of release lever—Geralt's arms wrap tight around him and he kisses back like he's starving for it.

When Jaskier tries to pull away Geralt growls and holds him tighter. Yennefer laughs.

"What do you want?" she asks, rolling closer, sliding a hand through Geralt's hair. "You want his mouth? I'd offer his ass, but we don't have the supplies."

"Excuse me," Jaskier says indignantly, between kisses. "I can offer my own ass, thank you very much."

Geralt shakes his head. "Just this," he says, "like this," and wraps a leg tightly around Jaskier as he grinds up against his bare thigh. The thought of it—primal, clumsy, desperate—sends a shot of lightning down Jaskier's spine.

"At least let me get you out of your trousers," he offers, and with a huff Geralt lets go, lets Jaskier make enough space between them to undo his buttons and pull his cock out, then yanks him close again and goes back to rutting against him. 

That doesn't take very long either; Jaskier kisses him all through it, and shivers as Yennefer murmurs soft encouragement to Geralt, tugging lightly at his hair until he groans out his release into Jaskier's mouth and spills hot and wet between their bodies.

For a minute there's no sound, after, except the three of them breathing hard and the ever-present rustle of small creatures in the woods.

"Honestly," Jaskier says finally, "if I'd known it would turn you both on this much I would have killed someone _ages_ ago."

Yennefer slaps him upside the head, which at this point in their relationship is more satisfying than it should be. He rolls off Geralt onto his back, feeling sticky and contented as the rush of battle and then sex finally starts to disperse.

"It wasn't a _reward,_ " Geralt grumbles, making no move to get up.

"Yes, yes, I know," Jaskier says. "We all just got caught up in the excitement, et cetera, et cetera. But you must admit, I did save your lives."

Yennefer scoffs, and Geralt _hmph_ s, and Jaskier lies peacefully naked in the grass and preens.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, Jaskier accidentally sends a video of himself jerking off to Geralt, and Geralt reciprocates assuming it's meant for him. Content notes: explicit sex (masturbation), ends on a cliffhanger (but you can assume the actual ending is happy).

Geralt almost didn't check the notification on his phone. It had been a long week at the barn, with three new clients, one of whom had accidentally hurt her horse and gone into a meltdown so bad her parents had had to take her home. The final touch had been staying up all last night with Lucille when she'd had a colic scare. She'd come out all right in the morning, but Geralt needed a lot more than one sleepless night to be able to fall asleep during the day. He'd stumbled through breakfast and some completely useless coffee and spent the rest of the morning watching nature documentaries, half-dozing while Roach napped on his chest. (Roach, as a cat, had no problems sleeping during the day.)

When his phone buzzed on the coffee table, he realized it was almost one o'clock and felt a vague stirring of guilt for wasting half a day, but it was easy enough to dismiss when he remembered how Lucille had been rolling around in pain. The lockscreen showed an incoming snapchat, or whatever they were called. Jaskier had installed it on his phone months ago, and he and Yenn were the only ones who ever sent him pictures. Sighing, and more out of a rather pathetic and sleepiness-induced loneliness than any real curiosity, Geralt tapped on the notification and the app opened.

It was a video, he realized; Jaskier didn't usually send those. His mouth moved without sound for a second until Geralt flipped the volume switch.

"—eetheart," Jaskier said, looking right at the camera and grinning. He looked very...relaxed. He also, Geralt realized, looked shirtless. "I'm, uh, I'm a little day drunk!" He grinned and panned the camera over the empty remains of a six pack and a half-empty wine bottle. Geralt felt a reflexive itch of concern mixed with annoyance, even though it was Saturday and Jaskier had every right to do whatever he wanted with his day off.

(If there was a touch of fondness mixed in there too, well, that was just...that was just Jaskier. He made people feel that way.)

"A little bit day drunk," Jaskier repeated, giggling, "and, uh. Um. I was thinking about you?" Geralt watched, the sense of fondness growing stronger along with a slow sense of anticipation—dulled by exhaustion but very much present—as Jaskier traced his free hand over his bare chest, starting at his collarbones and sliding down slowly. It wasn't until he flashed the camera a wicked grin and started to unzip his jeans that Geralt jerked into wakefulness and realized what was about to happen.

If he'd been able to pause the video, he would have, but Jaskier and Yenn had explained to him multiple times that you couldn't do that. (The idea of making a video app and deliberately including less functionality baffled him, but he had accepted it as part of the generational gap between him and his best friend. Yenn, being his age, had no excuse for understanding Snapchat, yet somehow did.) Instead he watched, breath caught in his chest, as Jaskier shimmied his jeans and boxers down a little and pulled his half-hard cock out.

It wasn't as though Geralt hadn't thought about it. They'd been friends for years, of course he'd—he'd considered it. And Jaskier flirted with him sometimes, but then, Jaskier flirted with anyone and anything. Geralt had always assumed it was a game to him, one that sometimes ground against a raw nerve in Geralt's heart, as the years went by, but a game nonetheless. And of course, Jaskier was drunk—more than a little drunk, judging from the faint slur in his speech and the lazy, loose way he was moving.

He should close it. The thought came to him quite clearly; he should close the video. Jaskier would surely be embarrassed later, when he realized what he'd done, because he'd never shown any sign—any _real_ sign—of wanting Geralt that way.

Geralt wanted him, though—he was exhausted enough right now to admit it to himself, as he occasionally did before resolving to ignore it again—and it wasn't like Jaskier was some clueless innocent kid. He was drunk, sure, but he looked at the camera with clear, if lidded, eyes. So Geralt watched, and listened, as Jaskier began to jerk himself off. He moved his hand slowly at first, gently working himself with luxurious patience until his cock grew fully hard. The angle kept shifting awkwardly between his face and his cock, and Geralt honestly didn't know which was better.

"Mmm," Jaskier sighed as the camera tilted up again to catch him biting his lip. "Fuck, that feels good..." His shoulder moved and he let out a long, trembling moan as he did—something, something very good, by the sound of it. "Ah, fuck, yeah..." He opened his eyes again and smiled at the camera. "You like watching me?"

The question startled him, but only for a moment, until he remembered that of course he wasn't _there,_ Jaskier wasn't really asking him. Except—he was, wasn't he? He just didn't expect an answer. Paying careful attention to the screen and none, none at all, to his own hand, Geralt slid a little lower on the couch and palmed his growing erection through his sweatpants.

Jaskier tilted the camera down again and Geralt watched the movement of his hand, watched the red glistening tip of his cock poke out of his fist and then disappear again as Jaskier started to jerk himself faster, letting out soft little moans that climbed higher and higher. "I like it," he said, almost gasping. "I like it when you watch me." He giggled breathlessly. "Like watching you too, oh, fuck..." Back to his face, now flushed a deep red. "Gonna come too fast," he panted. "You get me so hot, _god._ "

Sure enough, there were no more words after that—just Jaskier tilting his head back and the camera down and fucking his fist, hips lifting into every stroke, until he came, spilling over his fist and onto his stomach with a hoarse cry. The sight of it almost pushed Geralt over the edge, and he hadn't even touched himself yet, not really.

He watched as Jaskier lazily dragged his fingers up his chest, leaving a messy trail through the hair there that made Geralt's chest clench hard with how badly he wanted to taste it. Finally the camera shifted to Jaskier's face again. He looked— _satisfied,_ obscenely so, flushed and smiling so sweetly it was almost innocent. For just a second Geralt imagined putting that look on his face himself, with his own hands, and the thought made him ache.

"Sooooo," Jaskier said, and giggled again. "That was...yeah. Uh. Hope you liked it, babe." He waved at the camera with his still-sticky hand. "And if you wanna, you know. Show me how much. That would be cool." He brought the screen close to his face and gave it a loud kiss, and then the video ended.

If Geralt had been fully awake, he probably wouldn't have done what did next. But he wasn't, and Jaskier had _invited_ him, had said he wanted to see, and Geralt wasn't drunk but he felt wild, aroused and irrational and altogether stupid. He fumbled around pressing buttons until he found the right one to send a reply, and then the red circle was blinking and he stared stupidly into the camera for a second, wondering what he should say.

"I," he said, and stopped. "You said—" He bit his lip in frustration and finally just gave up. It wasn't like Jaskier ever expected much talking from him anyway; he'd always been more than content to provide enough words for both of them.

So instead he tilted the camera down and tugged his sweatpants down enough for his erection to spring free. He didn't tease himself or go slow like Jaskier had; he didn't think he could bear it. He stroked himself fast, with a tight grip, and kept the camera pointed at the action as he tumbled closer and closer. He'd already been halfway there from watching Jaskier, and he knew he wasn't putting on as good of a show—wasn't moaning, wasn't saying sexy things—but he felt certain, in the moment, that he would be forgiven. 

When he came it was with a loud grunt that he couldn't hold back, and it felt so much better than it had in—god, he didn't want to think about how long. For a few seconds he lay back, panting, and then remembered the camera was still on. He went to turn it off, but at the last second something held his hand back.

With a deep breath, he moved the camera up to point it at his face. He should say something, he knew, but he couldn't think of anything at all, so he just smiled—a creaky half-smile that came easier than usual—and, before he could think better of it, stuck his fingers in his mouth and licked them clean.

That felt like enough; he pressed the button to send it and immediately dropped the phone onto the couch, feeling an abrupt wave of panic. But it was too late now for regrets. A few slow deep breaths later, he felt a little better. After all, Jaskier had started this—had sent him the video, had _asked_ him to reciprocate. Geralt had only...cooperated. 

He got up, feeling dramatically more awake than he had ten minutes ago, and went to clean up and change. Behind him, between the couch cushions, utterly unheard, the phone trilled frantic alert after alert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote [a not-quite-fic on tumblr about what happens next](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/621671185741234176/so-if-i-wrote-a-sequel-to-the-snapchat-thing-it) if you would like to read that!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaskier confessing his love for Geralt and receiving a very soft and loving response.

He doesn't know what it is that tears the confession from him, after all these years of silence. Maybe it's the near-death experience—not his but Geralt's, a rarer occurrence despite the fact that Geralt fights monsters for a living. He'd staggered back to camp the night before and collapsed, blood absolutely everywhere and more pouring out fast, just barely coherent enough to direct Jaskier through picking the potions he needed. They hadn't been kind to him—he'd spent over an hour curled up on the ground after swallowing all three with a grimace, and his usual grim silence had been broken here and there by low moans of pain that made Jaskier shudder and wish he weren't so damned useless. But eventually Geralt had sat up, only breathing a little hard, and he'd been all right enough to frown at the blood soaking his armor, and to clean his sword, and Jaskier had breathed easier. 

But he can't seem to forget the sound of those whimpers and moans the next morning, and maybe that's why, when he notices Geralt is moving slower than usual, he sits down next to him—perilously close—and leans against him a little, companionably. The fact that Geralt lets him isn't so much of a surprise—Geralt has grown more indulgent of Jaskier's fond touches over the years, in his own extremely quiet way—but the way he nudges Jaskier back in acknowledgement is unexpected.

"I was scared, you know," Jaskier says quietly, watching Geralt's hands as he puts his bag of potions back in order from the mess Jaskier left tearing through it last night. "I've never seen you that bad off before."

Geralt shrugs. "Hardly the worst I've had."

"I know," Jaskier says with a frown, "and I don't like that either. It doesn't give me great confidence for your well-being when I'm not with you."

He could only see Geralt's face from the side, but it looked like he was smiling, or something close to it. "I survived without you for a long time," he says. "I don't think you need to worry."

"I do, though." It feels suddenly urgent that Geralt understand. "I do worry about you. When we're apart, and when you're hurt. I hate seeing you hurt."

Geralt's busy hands still, though he still doesn't look at Jaskier. "I would have thought you'd be used to it by now."

"It's not something I could get used to. I don't..." He sighs, and knows what he's going to say next, without actually deciding to say it. "I care about you very much." It comes out softly, more tender than he intended, and he thinks _well, the hell with it,_ and takes Geralt's hand in his. Geralt lets him, and now he does turn to look at him, his face guarded, but not shut.

"Jaskier," he says, and seems uncertain how to proceed.

Jaskier doesn't seem to be in control of himself any longer, because certainly if he were, he wouldn't take a deep breath and squeeze Geralt's hand and say, after over a decade of not saying it, "You know I love you."

The words fall out of his mouth, and he feels immediately dizzy; there's a wild ringing in his ears; his face feels hot. He waits for Geralt to frown, to grunt, to stammer, to deny any such knowledge, and reject it now that he has it.

Geralt doesn't. He only looks at Jaskier, eyes soft, and says—with evident difficulty—"I know." And he doesn't let go of his hand.

It's certainly a better result than Jaskier expected, but some perverse imp inside him insists on pushing. "Well," he says, his vision still swimming a little, "do you have any particular opinion on the matter that you'd like to share?"

He's a fool, turning down a kind noncommittal answer to insist on outright rejection, but he can't settle for anything less, not after so long. He lifts his chin a little, bracing himself.

The emotion that passes across Geralt's face is so open Jaskier doesn't even know how to interpret it, so used to reading meaning into a twist of the mouth, a slight upturn of the eyes. And then Geralt is—

Geralt is kissing him, a soft and gentle press of lips, and Jaskier is so stunned he doesn't even close his eyes. Geralt pulls back quickly, face gone guarded and uncertain again, ready to flee. Jaskier's mouth hangs open, eyes wide, and for a long moment they both just look at each other, waiting for the other to react.

Then Jaskier smiles, a broad grin that takes over his whole face. "Really?" His voice cracks a little. "Do you...really?"

Geralt smiles—a soft and tender little thing that his face doesn't seem to know how to hold. "Yeah," he says simply, and this time when he kisses Jaskier, Jaskier kisses back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drinking game: take a shot every time I use the words "soft", "tender," or "gentle." Do NOT do this with any of my longer fics though, you will absolutely die.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Yen's face in the crook of Jaskier's neck and she's tired, so tired, and he holds her close, humming nonsense as she clings a little."

He runs to her as she collapses, frightened, but she smiles dizzily up at him from the ground and his heart starts to slow. "I did it," she says, her voice light and dreamy, and he nods and smiles back as he slides an arm around her back and helps her stand up.

"You did," he says. "You were amazing. That spell was—I didn't know you could _do_ that."

She leans in exaggeratedly close and whispers loudly in his ear, "Me neither." Then she dissolves into giggles.

Channeling such powerful magic has clearly left her in something of a state. Jaskier looks around at the circles of bodies lying flat all around them, in this alley where moments ago he was sure he, at least, would die—Yenn bound and gagged, a very sharp knife scratching at his throat. And then he'd heard a sound like a clap of thunder, but _close_ , almost deafening, and then—

Well, he knows better now than to ever underestimate Yennefer. It does seem to have taken a lot out of her, though. No sooner has he hauled her to her feet than her knees buckle under her and she almost drags him back down.

"Sorry," she says, and she isn't giggling anymore. Her face is drawn and weary as she tries and fails again to stand up. "I'm just. I'm so tired..."

"Shhh," he says, and slips his other arm under her legs to scoop her up. "Don't worry, it's fine."

She's heavy in his arms, but it's a soothing weight, especially when she tucks her face into the crook of his neck like a little girl, her breath tickling across his skin. "I'm _really_ tired," she mumbles, and he plants a kiss on the crown of her head.

"Sleep, then," he tells her, "it's all right," and starts off back towards her house, careful to keep to the main streets. Without really realizing what he's doing, he starts to sing under his breath, a lullaby about ravens and sparrows that his mother used to sing for him. By the time they cross the threshold of her house she's fast asleep, snoring just a little in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always accepting prompts [via tumblr](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/ask) for Geraskier, OT3, or Yennskier! If it can be written in under 1500 words it's significantly more likely I'll get to it, but please feel free to throw me whatever you like.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier massages Yennefer's lovely bottom, and then does other things to it. (M/F, anal fingering, vaginal sex)

After weeks of Jaskier casually mentioning his massage skills, Yennefer had finally given in and let him lay her out on the bed, face down and naked, and go at it. It was nothing he hadn't seen before, of course, and she still half-suspected it was a seduction ploy, but, well, her back had been acting up again, and maybe he would actually do some good before they inevitably fucked. 

She hadn't expected the sheer _care_ he would take with it, though—warming the oils in hot water and rubbing them between his hands before he touched them to her skin, and focusing intently on her knotted shoulders with a startling amount of finger strength. She let out a soft, surprised noise of satisfaction as he dug his knuckles into a particularly tough spot, letting herself enjoy the tingling sensation of the muscle finally letting go under the pressure.

Jaskier didn't flirt with her, either, as he worked his way down her back, unlocking every tight spot and sending warm shivers through her body. He was straddling her as he worked, but she felt no sign of arousal from him; he was solely dedicated to his task, as far as she could tell. 

(Not that she would have minded. She did love how easily she could turn him on, reduce him to stammering. And the growing warmth spreading through her body was still teetering on the edge between sleepiness and arousal.)

Finally he reached the base of her spine, and as she lay puddled in bliss, she felt him crawl lower on the bed, and a thrill of anticipation shot through her. But his hands landed midway down her thighs, and he gave no hint of even noticing the territory in between.

Yennefer wasn't quite sure how she felt about that, but she soon stopped worrying about it as his hands performed more magic on her muscles, working down her thighs, gently over knees, and digging deep and hard into her calves. He skipped her feet—he knew she was ticklish and doubtless didn't want a kick in the face—and then, finally, she felt his weight lift off the bed as he stood.

She turned her head to look at him. "You missed a spot," she said, and kept her face straight. Let him wonder; she loved knocking him off balance.

He blinked at her in surprise, and then gamely straddled her legs again. "If the lady insists," he said, smiling faintly, and she lay her head back down and closed her eyes as his strong fingers dug into her buttocks, almost forgetting her desire in the sheer pleasure of feeling the tight muscles unlock.

It was only after he'd reduced her muscles to putty, and started to rub with a little less force and a little more of a soothing touch—still well-oiled and warm—that she felt her arousal really kick in. She felt loose and warm all over, utterly painless and almost floating, and his hands on her ass generally led to a certain place, and it was a place she was, she decided, quite keen on going. She let out a soft noise, almost a moan, studied in its seductiveness but, she knew from experience, no less effective. 

She heard Jaskier draw in a slightly shaky breath, and his hands tightened on her ass. With ever so small a motion she lifted her hips, pressing up into his touch, and sighed, letting her voice catch a little.

"More?" Jaskier asked, thumbs slip-sliding over her crack as he kept rubbing, and she made an affirmative _mmm,_ , spreading her legs just a little bit. She expected him to slide a hand lower, circle a finger around her—quite wet, by this point—cunt, but instead she felt him gently spread her cheeks and stroke his oiled finger over her asshole, the lightest touch imaginable.

Yennefer jerked in surprise and Jaskier stopped immediately. "No," she said, and then clarified, "do that again," knowing she sounded demanding and petulant, but it was preferable to sounding as _needy_ as she suddenly felt. They hadn't done this before—she'd done it to him, of course, and they'd fucked every other which way, but somehow—

He touched her there again, rubbing gently at her opening, and she couldn't hold back a moan. It felt so _fucking_ good, sending shocks of lightning straight to her cunt. She'd fingered herself there before, occasionally, and she liked it, but no lover had ever asked; she knew she cultivated the air of a woman whom one did not approach with such requests. But Jaskier never seemed to notice that.

"You like that?" he said, sounding quite satisfied with himself.

"Don't ask stupid questions," she snapped, pushing her hips back, trying to get him inside. He kept teasing a few moments more until she thought she might die of it, and then finally his finger slipped inside, just an inch or so, and she gasped at the slick slide of it, the way it felt when she clenched around it. She was grinding down against the sheets, she realized, searching fruitlessly for friction on her clit.

"Fuck," she half-moaned, half-growled, and pushed herself up on her knees a little to get a hand under herself. "Fuck me, fuck—"

His finger slid a little deeper and then _bent_ in some magical way that hit a good spot in her cunt, from the other side than usual, and she abandoned all attempts at keeping quiet and relatively dignified. 

"Fuck," Jaskier muttered, sounding amazed and fiercely aroused, "fuck, you're so—so—come on, touch yourself, show me how much you like it."

She did, and she did, and he kept fucking her, sliding in and out, crooking and circling, and right as she felt herself about to peak, two fingers dancing frantically over her clit, she felt his weight shift and then his tongue pressing up against her stretched rim, licking all around his finger, making her shout as she came, clenching tight around him in spasm after spasm.

She collapsed flat when it was over, panting heavily, shivering a little when Jaskier pulled his finger out of her. She was floating in that good space right after the first orgasm, when her body wasn't quite ready to go for the second yet but would be soon, when she heard him fumbling with his trousers and then the slap of skin on skin. With some effort, she looked back over her shoulder and almost unconsciously licked her lips at the sight of Jaskier frantically stripping his cock, mouth open and panting.

Still, they could do better than that. "Come on," she said, and spread her legs, lifting her hips a bit, knowing exactly how wet and dripping she was. "Get inside me, come on." She smirked. "I think you've earned it."

"Oh fuck _thank you,_ " he groaned, and eased his cock into her cunt, making her shudder as the sleepiness faded and her body woke up again. He fucked her hard, the way he knew she liked it when she'd already come once, and also, she suspected, because he was close himself. She rocked back against him, meeting every stroke, feeling the heat coil up slowly in her belly one more time.

She was about to reach for her clit to speed things up when his spare hand, the one that wasn't holding him up, found it first, and she arched her back, throwing her head back as the shock of pleasure. He was _good_ at this, knew when to circle around, when to flick back and forth, when to pinch ever so lightly—as though he could read it all in the clench of her cunt and the panting of her breath, from long experience.

"Can I—I'm close," he gasped, and she could hear in his voice just how much.

She nodded. "Go ahead, it's fine." She wasn't quite there herself—the second one always took longer—but he had been very patient, and he could always finish off fucking her with his hand. As soon as she spoke he groaned loudly and slammed into her again, grinding his hips against hers like he was trying to get even deeper, and she felt him spilling inside her as he thrust shallowly, his cock barely sliding out before pushing back in, three or four more times before he collapsed over her back with a deep and satisfied sigh.

He only rested there for a few seconds— _well-trained,_ she thought with some satisfaction—before pulling out and replacing his cock with three fingers, thrusting them in and out. He didn't go as deep as he could—as she wanted—and she glanced back over her shoulder crossly, ready to snap out instructions, when he cut her off.

"Fuck yourself on my hand?" he said—asked, really; it wasn't a command. "Please? Show me how much you want it, let me watch you?"

Yennefer bit her lip, flushing, but the thought was not unpleasant. She looked away again and began to work her hips back and forth, forcing his fingers deeper until they hit the right spot, grinding down on them, taking her pleasure. She heard a murmured _yeah_ from behind her and felt emboldened, started moving faster, fucking herself harder. He was helping, but she was doing most of the work, up on her hands and knees now for leverage, feeling her tits bounce underneath her as she moved.

"Fuck," she gasped, "fuck, fuck—" Feeling his eyes on her, heavy and hot. Her hand practically flew to her clit and she rubbed hard, needing to come _now_. On her next thrust back she felt Jaskier's thumb slide in alongside his fingers and the stretch was so good she almost choked as she came, biting her lip to keep from screaming.

She really did collapse then, exhausted and slick with sweat and oil, and Jaskier crawled up the bed to lie facing her. When she opened her eyes he had his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean of her wetness, and she shivered.

"You're very impertinent," she told him, her voice a little hoarse.

"Mmm, I know," he said, and kissed her. He tasted like her, of course, and it sent a weary tingle down her spine. "You ought to punish me."

"Hmm." She reached out and pinched his side, grinning as he yelped. "Maybe next time."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt of Geralt making extremely tender love to Jaskier and cherishing him. Content notes: explicit sex, many soft feelings.

He doesn't always know what to do with Jaskier's love.

It's so obvious, so ever-present—in the way Jaskier's voice brightens when he sees Geralt for the first time in a while, the way his whole body lights up and turns toward Geralt like a sunflower no matter where they are or what he's doing. It's in the soft way Jaskier talks to him at night under the stars, murmuring inconsequential nonsense about songs and stories and constellations and where they should head next, the slow contented thump of his heartbeat underlying all his words. It's in the careful way Jaskier touches him when he's wounded, the trembling hands dragging him back to camp accompanied by a steady stream of curses, or the surprisingly steady fingers smearing salve on his gashes and cuts and bandaging him as they sit side by side on their bed at an inn. It's in the genuine umbrage Jaskier takes whenever an alderman cheats Geralt out of his full pay, or an innkeeper turns them away at the sight of his golden eyes, and the way if Geralt lets him get one too many drinks in him he's liable to start a bar fight he can't even remotely finish at the first "damned witcher freak" he hears.

It's in _everything,_ the way Jaskier loves him; it always has been, and Geralt...doesn't know how to be loved. He grunts when Jaskier talks to him, he mutters awkward thanks when Jaskier patches him up, he can't always manage to let himself smile when they reunite. It shames him, how little he can give Jaskier in return for his seemingly bottomless font of love; it shakes him, how much he's come to need it anyway—to depend on it, in the long months when they're apart, in the cold winters when he's trapped pacing Kaer Morhen with his brothers wishing he'd had the courage to invite Jaskier this year at last.

Geralt doesn't know how to be loved, and so it was a relief when Jaskier finally—heart thumping in his chest like a panicked rabbit—finally kissed him, a desperate hard kiss, and fast, like he didn't think he'd get away with it for long. Because this, this, he understands. This doesn't ask for words, or smiles, or anything except his attention, and he's happy to give it; except his gentleness, which he so rarely has opportunity to use.

From the stories Jaskier's shared of his countless tumbles, Geralt knows he does things differently with them. He knows sex can be wild and rough, frantic and fierce, and all the more fulfilling for it. But he doesn't want to be mistaken. If this is the only way he can respond—if this is the only answer he can give to Jaskier's steadfast, overflowing love for him—then he will be careful.

This time, like so many times before, he eases Jaskier's doublet off his shoulders, and sets it on a chair. He dips his head down to kiss at Jaskier's throat, worrying the tenderest spots gently with his teeth until Jaskier lets out a long, pleased sigh and tilts his head back, offering up more skin to be kissed. Geralt leans him back gently against the bed, licking and sucking lightly at the spot just under his ear that drives him wild, as he untucks Jaskier's undershirt and slides his hands up under it through the thick dark curls there, feeling for Jaskier's heartbeat, feeling every quickening breath.

"Darling," Jaskier breathes, and they kiss, Jaskier nibbling at his bottom lip the way he knows Geralt likes. He knows so _much_ now; they've learned each other so well. They kiss until Geralt pulls away and pushes Jaskier's shirt up around his arms, a silent request; Jaskier wriggles out of it and raises his eyebrows until Geralt does the same with his own. 

Like this Jaskier looks so much _more_ than in his usual attire, the full breadth and strength of his shoulders exposed, and the soft hair on his chest inviting Geralt to rub his face in it, breathing in deep the scent he loves more than any other in the world. He thinks, and knows he could never say, that the smell of Jaskier's body is the closest thing he has to a home anymore; that he cannot be at home without it.

They've done everything imaginable with each other by this point. Some nights Jaskier rolls Geralt over and presses up against his back and fucks him, or slicks up Geralt's thighs and fucks between them, murmuring soft words to him all the while, pressing kisses to the back of his neck. Those nights might be Geralt's favorite, when nothing escapes his mouth but moans and rough pleas and Jaskier somehow hears him anyway, when he can abandon himself to being used and pleasured and cherished. But tonight—

Winter is coming soon enough, and Geralt hopes he'll be able to ask Jaskier to come with him this time, and knows he won't, but he can _show_ Jaskier, if he can't do anything else. He can work Jaskier's trousers and underclothes down, taking care not to damage the fabric, and drape them over the chair with his doublet so they don't wrinkle. He shucks off his own trousers in haste, and his underclothes, and then Jaskier is naked and smiling up at him, not reaching for Geralt anymore but just lying sprawled and loose and beautiful, because of course he understands what Geralt wants tonight. That Geralt wants to take care of him.

He kisses down Jaskier's chest, one hand entwined in Jaskier's and the other tracing little patterns through his curls, over his skin. Jaskier's cock is already halfway to standing by the time Geralt reaches it, and Geralt takes him into his mouth, eager to feel him swell and harden. He sucks gently, his free hand carefully cupping Jaskier's balls and gently stroking them, and before long his mouth is truly full, enough that he has to carefully relax his throat around the welcome intrusion. He moves up and down steadily, working his tongue over the tip when he comes up, swallowing around Jaskier's cock when he goes down, until Jaskier is babbling and then until he's moaning, past words, hips trembling and jerking in little motions he can't hold back. He's squeezing Geralt's hand, equally unwilling to let go, and when Geralt finally pulls off with a slick wet sound he shudders all over.

"Want you in me," he moans, "please," and Geralt wants nothing more than to comply. The oil is on the nightstand, and Jaskier's legs spread easily when Geralt pushes them open and back. He knows Jaskier can take him without preparation, after all the times they've done this, but he fingers him anyway just for the pleasure of it, for the sounds he makes, high and quavering, as Geralt probes for the best spots, slides in and out, rubs the slick pads of his fingers over Jaskier's open hole just to tease before finally sliding an oil-slick hand over his cock and lining himself up.

"Please," Jaskier is panting, sweat beading on his brow already as he stares up at Geralt with utterly unguarded eyes, "please, please—" and Geralt gives him what he wants, presses in slowly, carefully, more careful than he needs to be just for the pleasure of _being_ careful. Jaskier whines and squirms until Geralt is as deep as he can get, their hips joined, Geralt bent over Jaskier close enough to kiss, sharing shallow frantic breaths.

Geralt doesn't kiss him, but he does rub his face against Jaskier's like a cat as he starts to fuck him, slow deep strokes that jar him up the mattress each time. Jaskier moans loudly each time Geralt drives home, each thrust shaking another raw noise from his lips, and it's only a minute later that Jaskier's breathing picks up and the flush on his throat spills up to his face and ears, and Geralt knows he's close.

He sits back enough to get a hand between them and watches Jaskier's face intently as he strokes him, steady and firm, watches the way Jaskier falls utterly to pieces, defenseless, and comes with a loud high cry in Geralt's hand, squeezing tight and rhythmic around his cock. Geralt fucks him through it, knowing better than to stop, but when Jaskier is finally shivering through the last of it and gulping for breath, he slows to a stop, not pulling out but not moving.

"Okay?" he says—almost a whisper—and waits for Jaskier's loose, lazy nod before moving again. He knew it would be; knows Jaskier loves to come on his cock and then get fucked through the aftershocks, limp and pliable and overwhelmed with almost too much pleasure. But he asks anyway, because he wants to be told _yes._

So Geralt keeps fucking him, bent over as close as he can get, the hand that's not holding him up tracing shapes on Jaskier's face as he drives himself closer and closer. Jaskier talks to him, when they're like this, when he's come and Geralt hasn't. Tells him how beautiful he is, how good he is to Jaskier, how kind and gentle and _loving,_ and Geralt is always too close to the edge to protest. He can't even close his eyes against it, because he needs to see Jaskier—needs to see his fill, store up the memory of his blissful slack face, his dilated pupils, the deep red stain of his flushed skin, the way his lips shape the words that undo Geralt utterly, as his thrusts turn fast and frantic and he finally comes into Jaskier's welcoming body.

When it's over, he slips out as gently as he can and lies down, and lets Jaskier wrap his arms around him, and tentatively—every time—wraps his own arms around Jaskier, never quite sure that he'll fit. He always does, though. They fit together very well.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "a more inhuman or monstrous looking type of creature!jaskier being unsure of the witcher's reaction, and Geralt being especially soft and appreciative of all his particularly inhuman aspects"...I didn't quite get there (there is no smooching and Jaskier isn't that monstrous) but I did my best. Please imagine lots and lots of smooching happening after the end.
> 
> This is a bit longer than I'd usually put as a chapter here but I don't like the writing quite enough to make it its own thing. But I do like the EMOTIONS.

Approaching a witcher in the first place had been almost suicidally foolish, but Jaskier had been eighteen and bold and, let's face it, stupid, and he'd been drawn by Geralt's golden eyes—so like his own—and brooding silence. By the time he'd realized he was flirting with a monster hunter, it had been just too late to make the wise decision, not when actual adventure awaited just around the corner.

He hadn't, at first, intended to stay long with Geralt. But there was something magnetic about the man—something only partially attributable to the way he had said to the elf, "Don't call me human," and rung a bell in Jaskier's heart.

( _I have learned to live with them,_ Geralt had said, _so that I may live,_ and Jaskier, his glamour apparently strong enough to fool even elven sight, had fallen broken-heartedly in love with him.)

And after the way the song took off—well, it was only a wise career choice; he could justify it to himself that way. Geralt showed no signs of seeing through his glamour for the weeks that they traveled together, that first time, and when they'd parted Jaskier had known it wouldn't be the last time. There were too many stories to be had, and more than that...

Geralt, of course, spent the first two years of their acquaintance grunting and frowning at him, Jaskier only certain of his welcome by the fact that Geralt always accepted his return as, seemingly, an unavoidable fact of life, and made sure to provide enough food for them both (and cook it) when they slept outdoors. Jaskier, being young and virile and in good health and only, almost, human, entertained plenty of fantasies about Geralt, but it was better, he told himself, that they remain fantasies. Better to maintain enough distance, because—fantasies aside—he had no doubt of his fate should Geralt ever discover his true nature.

He was terribly careful, at first. His glamour wasn't as strong when he was asleep, so he made sure to wake early and lie still in bed until Geralt rose first. He needed nutrients, sometimes, that could only be found in the less savory parts of the animal, so he snuck rabbit and deer livers under the pretense of wanting to learn how to clean the animals Geralt killed, wanting to help. He _did_ want to help, which helped to sell it. He wanted to do so many things for Geralt, lift some of the unbearable burden from his shoulders of being spat upon, cursed at, treated like an animal. 

So he wrote his songs, and sang them everywhere he went, and by the fifth or sixth time he met with Geralt he was pleased to see the man had replaced his battered, hand-patched armor with a shiny new set, and looked reasonably well-fed. That sense of satisfaction—of having _helped_ —was probably what made him let his guard down.

He'd gotten too comfortable, that was all; forgotten that his traveling companion wasn't actually a kindred spirit but rather a superhuman monster hunter whose sole purpose in life—much though Jaskier tried to impress on him a love of the finer things—was killing creatures like Jaskier. It was just—early on, when Geralt had given the impression that he might kill Jaskier for talking too loud, it had been easy to be careful. It was only as they grew closer—as Jaskier started patching up Geralt's wounds and cleaning his armor, as Geralt started staying downstairs at inns and listening to Jaskier's playing, as they came to share a bed on occasion (chastely, to Jaskier's sorrow)—that Jaskier started relaxing, exactly the way his mother had warned him he mustn't.

The first slip-up was five years into their acquaintance, when Jaskier forgot to wake up early one morning, and of course it happened to be a morning that he was sharing a bed with Geralt. He woke with a start to light coming in through the window, and before he even had a chance to realize his mistake he felt Geralt's fingers brushing the nape of his neck, not ungently.

"What's wrong with your skin?" he asked, and Jaskier's heart flipped over in his chest. Luckily the room wasn't fully illuminated yet, and as he rolled over to hide the barely-glamoured scales, he quickly adjusted the image he was projecting.

"Oh, I've had a rash there since yesterday," he said breezily, trying and failing to will his heartbeat back to normal, knowing full well Geralt could hear it. "I've always had a bit of an allergy to shellfish."

Geralt eyed him—not suspiciously, but with intent. "Then why did you eat those oysters?"

Jaskier plastered a smile on his face. "Oh, I can't resist a good oyster," he said. "It's worth the itching for a day or two."

Geralt snorted, but apparently filed this away as just another ridiculous thing Jaskier had done, and said no more about it. By the end of the day Jaskier returned his glamour to normal, and he woke before dawn for the next week out of sheer anxiety.

The second slip, however, was the last. It had been two years since Geralt had gotten a glimpse at his scales, and though he sometimes looked askance at Jaskier in the full moonlight, when his glamour was at its weakest, Jaskier had managed to avoid any close inspection. 

The contract Geralt had taken that day was for a lesser vampire—an ekimmara, Geralt called it. Jaskier had never seen one before, and insisted on coming along—it was a rare treat, after all these years, to get a chance to write about something entirely new.

"I'll stay out of the way," he promised, hurrying to keep up with Geralt as he headed into the woods. "I'll be ever so quiet, it won't even know I'm here. I just _have_ to get a look at it, and anyway, you said it wasn't anything too bad, nothing you can't handle—"

"Fine," Geralt growled, cutting him off, "fine, like I could stop you anyway. Just— _stay out of the way._ "

"I will," Jaskier swore, and he meant it, in that moment. He found a solid tree to hide behind, woven thick with ivy and vines and leaves to peek through, and watched Geralt wait, silver sword shining in the moonlight, for the creature to appear.

It was always a thrill, watching Geralt hunt, and Jaskier found himself on edge listening to every faint sound the forest produced, every insect hiss and crackle of twigs and even the thick, present nature of the silence bearing down on him. Geralt, of course, heard the ekimmara's steps well before Jaskier did, and Jaskier watched him raise his head, his body keeping perfectly still, showing no other sign of alertness or wariness. And then Jaskier heard it—the scrape of claws against the carpet of dead leaves, a _whsh-whsh_ sound that sent a shiver down his spine. When the thing finally emerged it was almost a relief, and he started taking frantic mental notes— _hunched, on the short side, reddish black skin— **long** claws—shriveled face,_ all the details he'd need to write a good song.

He paid attention to the fight, too, the way Geralt dodged with even more agility than usual, never letting the thing land a blow on him. He moved, at times, too fast for Jaskier to see, and the shivering awareness of just how powerful Geralt was lit up his veins with desire (and the usual hint of fear). But there was no time to think about that, because the ekimmara, despite several silver blows, was closing in on Geralt, pushing him deeper into the woods, out of the small clearing he'd found. Before long Jaskier couldn't see them anymore, though he could still hear the thing's squalling cries and Geralt's heavy breaths.

Without thinking—of course without thinking, when did he ever _think_ —Jaskier stepped out from behind his tree and moved to follow them. He made it almost all the way across the clearing, and he could see another good tree to hide in, one that would give him a decent vantage point on what he could now see only snatches of.

Then, of course, he tripped over a log and landed with a loud grunt as the air was knocked out of him. He stumbled quickly to his feet, but the damage was done; through the tangle of branches he saw the ekimmara turn its head and its black eyes lock onto him unmistakably. 

"Fuck," Geralt snarled, " _Jaskier,_ " and he turned and ran, knowing it was useless. He made it all of five steps before the claws raked down his back, tearing through his clothing and deep into his flesh. He stumbled again, feeling his shirt fill with blood, and when the next slash of claws landed across his hip he fell, breathless with pain and terror. 

_Gods,_ he thought, _let it be quick,_ and squeezed his eyes shut. A long, long second later he heard the sound of a sword plunging through flesh, and the horrid death-shriek of the ekimmara.

He tried to roll over and sit up, but his wounds were still pumping blood, and he felt impossibly weak. "Geralt," he rasped, and then there Geralt was, swearing at him viciously as his hands carefully felt for Jaskier's wounds. Jaskier relaxed a little—Geralt could fix him, get him to a healer, everything would be fine—and then he looked down at his hand and felt his remaining blood turn to ice.

He'd lost his glamour when he was wounded, and the moonlight shone down on a hand quite covered in glistening green scales. Geralt tried to help him sit up and he went numbly, his body feeling heavy and stupid. The blood loss, no doubt; he tried as hard as he could to bring the glamour back up, but it didn't work. With his shaking hand, keenly aware of Geralt's eyes on him, he brought his fingers up to touch his face and felt scales there too, as he knew he would.

Jaskier didn't want to look at Geralt—didn't want to see the disgust in his eyes, the moment when he realized, when he finally pulled his sword (silver, of course, silver for monsters). But he was weak and dizzy and couldn't help himself. His eyes met Geralt's and he was shocked to see nothing but fear there as Geralt scooped him up into his arms, still muttering about what a fucking idiot he was, and carried him out of the woods. 

"I'm sorry," Jaskier managed, though it took enormous effort to speak. He was vaguely aware that he hadn't stopped bleeding.

"Don't be sorry," Geralt snapped, "just _stay put_ next time," and Jaskier didn't have the energy to say that that wasn't what he was sorry for before sleep, or something like it, took him.

—

He woke in a bed, his back and side burning terribly, and for a few sweet moments he didn't remember what had happened. Then Geralt's face hove into view above him and it came rushing back. Without much hope, Jaskier looked down at his own naked, bandaged body, and sure enough his scales were on full display. If he'd had a mirror to look in, he was sure he would have seen yellow, slitted eyes. 

"Jaskier," Geralt said, and the relief in his voice was utterly incongruous. Could he not see what was in front of him? And why had he gone to the trouble of bandaging Jaskier, rubbing that stinging salve into his wounds, if he was just going to have to kill him later?

Because that was what witchers did, of course. They killed monsters. And Jaskier knew—had always known—that he was a monster.

But Geralt made no move for his sword. In fact, he sat down on the bed next to Jaskier and reached out a hand to touch his forehead. Jaskier's brow wrinkled in confusion.

"What are you doing?" he asked, lacking the courage to ask what he really meant— _why aren't I dead yet?_

"Checking for fever," Geralt said. "Ekimmara claws are nasty, and you could have an infection. But the wounds look all right, and your temperature is normal." He frowned uncertainly. "Well, I think it's normal. Do you run the same as a regular human?"

Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it, utterly at a loss. He stared up at Geralt and couldn't think of a single thing to say as Geralt watched him, all brusque concern.

"A little cooler," he said finally. "Geralt, aren't you going to kill me?"

Geralt flinched. "I'm not going to kill you. What do you take me for?"

"A monster hunter," Jaskier said, he thought quite reasonably. "And I'm—I mean, look at me." He gestured at his body, shimmering with green scales all down his sides and most of his legs, his hands and forearms, his neck. He'd never known what he was, exactly, other than the latest incarnation of the family curse. His mother had hidden him away until he was old enough to learn his glamour, and he'd never forgotten it since—not even, anymore, when he was alone.

Of course, he'd never been clawed half to death by a lesser vampire, either, and apparently that kind of thing broke one's concentration somewhat. He could probably pull it back up now, but what would be the point? Geralt knew, and any moment, surely, he would get over whatever sentiment was holding him back and do what had to be done.

Only it didn't look like was getting over it. It looked like he was watching Jaskier with impossibly sad eyes, those golden eyes that had drawn Jaskier to him in the first place. Jaskier held his breath and waited.

"You're not a monster," Geralt said eventually. Jaskier stared at him disbelievingly.

"I have _scales,_ " he said. "And fangs—" He bared his teeth to show them. "I mean, they're retractable, but still. And I have to eat at least a pound of liver and pancreas a month or I get horribly sick. I'm not _human._ "

Geralt shrugged. "Plenty of people aren't human," he said, as if it were that simple.

"And you're not—" Jaskier stopped, embarrassed, because he had been about to ask, _And you're not disgusted by me?_ As though that mattered, what Geralt thought of his weird half-snake body. As though Geralt thought of his body at all, when it wasn't wounded. 

"You don't think it's hideous?" he asked finally, unable to hold it back.

Geralt let out a low chuckle. "It looks wonderful," he said. "Like a snakeskin bag, but shimmering and alive."

Slowly, not quite believing it, Jaskier exhaled. "As long as you don't plan to make me into leather," he said, and managed a smile.

"How about next time, you stay put like I tell you to," Geralt said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, "and we'll forgo the snakeskin bags. Though I'm sure I could fetch a pretty price for them."

"That," Jaskier informed him haughtily, "is offensive, I'll have you know." He felt dizzy again, but this time with relief. And there was a dull pain missing in the back of his head—the exhaustion, he realized, from keeping the glamour up full time all those years. Gods, it felt amazing to let it go.

He'd have to keep it up around other people, of course. He had no illusions about how well-received his true form would be by people who found golden eyes and white hair on an otherwise handsome human man unforgivable mutations. But just knowing he'd be able to let it down around Geralt was such a blissful thought he couldn't hold back a thoroughly stupid smile.

Geralt matched it with his own, smaller and more dignified, and for the first time that he could remember, Jaskier felt safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't @ me if I got the ekimmara wrong; I did two minutes of research on the Witcher wiki and that's all I'm willing to put into a short prompt fill.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "Geralt's sight or hearing is gone/diminished temporarily for magical or monster-related reasons, and someone has to take care of him."

When it came to "reasons for young people to go missing from the woods around town and turn up later dead and mutilated," monsters were infinitely preferable to mages. They were infinitely more common, too, and the way the body he'd been shown had been maimed had looked just like the work of a lamia. So Geralt had neither expected, nor particularly hoped, to hear chanting from up ahead as he made his way deeper into the woods. 

He'd been able to take one out before being seen, and quickly Axii'd another into drooling passivity, but he didn't have time to make full use of it—to command the Axii'd mage to turn on his companions—because the other two were already readying spells. He had speed on his side, and swords, but he still only managed to kill one before the other shouted something and he felt himself freeze solid.

The remaining mage glared at him furiously. "You bastard," she snarled, stepping closer, utterly fearless. "We were so close! We were _so close_ —and now I'll have to start _again_ —because you damned witchers don't know how to keep your noses out of other people's business!"

He struggled against the paralysis, but she was strong and it held fast. As she drew closer still, he allowed himself one brief, agonizing thought for Jaskier and Yennefer back at the inn; one brief moment of regret that he hadn't accepted Yennefer's offer of help. He'd been so sure it was just a lamia—stupidly overconfident—and now here he was, waiting for death. At least, he thought, the killings would stop for a while; whatever the mages had been doing had seemed to require all four people.

He would have closed his eyes to wait for it, but he couldn't even blink, and so he saw quite clearly the cruel smile that spread across the mage's face as she reached out a hand and touched his forehead. "A fitting punishment," she said, "for a witcher who spied on something he shouldn't have. Let's see how long you can survive like this."

Everything went dark, and a moment later—as he was still reeling—everything went silent. A hand patted his cheek, and then the scent of the mage began to fade slowly, until it was gone. With a jolt, movement returned, and Geralt fell to his hands and knees, sheer white panic crawling up his spine in the darkness.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, crouched and hunched in a defensive ball, smelling the rich scent of blood and the damp heavy dirt of the woods, panting in fear, blind and deaf and helpless, or as good as. Eventually—he had no idea how much time had passed—he coaxed himself to standing and tried to orient himself. He could smell the first mage he'd killed, and if he turned to face that scent, he'd be facing the way he came.

The idea of making his way out of a forest he barely knew both blind and deaf was laughable, but what other choice did he have? Slowly, shuffling his feet against the earth, arms stretched in front of him, he set off.

—

It went poorly. Geralt lost count of how many times he stumbled and fell, how many thorn bushes scraped his arms, how many times he stopped and tried to smell any trace of the village he'd come from. The worst part was the terror, banked but still glowing in the back of his brain, because anything could come for him like this. He hadn't felt so helpless since the days after the Trials, when his eyes hadn't adjusted yet and he'd barely been able to move for the pain. But not since then—never—and he thought, with a growing wildness, that maybe the mage had been right; maybe he would die in these woods. For all he knew he'd gotten himself turned around and wandered deeper into them.

At that thought he let out a pained groan, which he knew only from the vibration in his throat, for of course he couldn't hear it. He sank to the ground, shivering, and as hard as he tried he couldn't make himself stand up again.

Some indeterminable time later, the scents of lilacs and sandalwood floated past his nose, rousing him from his stupor. He lifted his head, turning it this way and that to try and catch the sound of footsteps before remembering it was useless.

He should shout—help them find him—but he didn't want to draw anything else's attention, not when he was defenseless like this. Instead he spoke in what he hoped, but couldn't tell, was a normal voice, and hoped it would be enough. 

"Yennefer," he said, and his voice didn't even echo in his own head. He put one hand to his throat to make sure he was speaking. "Jaskier—Yennefer—I'm here. Here. Here—"

He smelled Jaskier only a moment before the hands touched his face, and he couldn't stop his instinctive recoil. But the smell was right, and he leaned forward again, suddenly desperate to be touched, to be anchored in this infinite silent blackness. When Jaskier's hands cupped his face again Geralt leaned into them, and for a minute all he could feel was relief at not being alone. He reached out a tentative hand and found Jaskier's arm, then shoulder, and then—surprising himself—pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him. He couldn't hear Jaskier's heartbeat, couldn't hear his voice—undoubtedly he was speaking, his voice surely getting more and more shrill with concern as Geralt said nothing in return. Geralt clutched him tightly, feeling himself start to rock back and forth on his knees a little and not bothering to stop. 

The lilac scent drew closer, and a moment later Geralt felt a wave of magic flow over him and a sudden stab of hope lit up his heart. If a mage had done this to him, then surely Yennefer, more powerful by far, could undo it. He lifted his head and looked towards her, or where he thought she was, heart pounding.

For a half second whatever she had done seemed to work. Geralt caught a glimpse of Yenn in her black dress, her face white with dismay, and heard Jaskier's frantically pounding heart and a snatch of his voice— _fix him,_ Jaskier was demanding, _can't you fix—_

Then it was all gone, and his world was black silence once more. Geralt sagged into Jaskier's arms and thought of the mage's last words to him. _Let's see how long you can survive like this._

With Jaskier and Yennefer helping him, he wouldn't die, and that prospect seemed like the worst fate he could imagine.

Geralt didn't realize he was shaking until someone—Yennefer, her fingers were slimmer—grabbed his hand and pulled it open. He felt one of those slim fingers draw a line down the middle of his palm, but it wasn't until the next letter that he realized she was writing. _I—C—A—N—T—_

He didn't need the rest. He tore his hand away, then jerked, startled, when she pulled it right back, yanking almost painfully. Her finger pressed hard against his palm as she drew three more letters.

_Y—E—T._

If Yennefer thought there was a chance...Geralt took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Jaskier's fear and sweat, the other man still wrapped tight in his arms. Then he nodded, and let go, and stood, and let them lead him out of the woods.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some tender Geraskefer double penetration, in honor of Thanksgiving. (Because, you know....it's a day for stuffing things.)

Geralt is utterly strung out and desperate by the time Yennefer slides her cock inside him; they've been playing with him and teasing him for what feels like forever. He's been hard for a long time, so aroused that every touch to his overheated skin makes him whimper in need.

When Yen's dildo--made of some magical material, with more give than the average wooden or leather phallus--prods slickly at his hole he whines hungrily and pushes back onto it, opening up easily after Jaskier spent so long fingering him. Yen laughs, not unkindly, at his eagerness.

"You need it so bad, don't you," she coos, leaning forward to press a kiss to his back as she gives him what he wants, sinking deeper inside him slowly but steadily. His bound hands ball into fists and he rubs his cheek frantically against the pillow, panting. Jaskier watches him with dark eyes and a smile, stroking Geralt's hair and murmuring to him how well he's taking it, how good he's being.

Yennefer's breath shakes a little as she starts to thrust; the dildo is spelled to give her all the sensation of a real cock, and Geralt is so tight, always so tight around her. It makes her shiver when she thinks of what they're about to do to him--but then, it was his idea, murmured shyly into Jaskier's shoulder as they lay entwined and sweaty one night.

"Oh, fuck, Yen," Jaskier groans, and Geralt licks his lips unconsciously as Jaskier wraps a hand around his own erection. "You always look so _fucking_ good when you fuck him..." 

There's a note of yearning in his voice that Yennefer doesn't miss. She gives a hard thrust, making Geralt yelp, and tells Jaskier, "Don't be jealous, now. You'll get your turn tomorrow."

Jaskier laughs, though it's a little strained as he strokes himself. "I know," he says, and bends down to kiss Geralt's cheek. "I have other duties tonight. Very pleasant ones, I might add."

Another few strokes and Geralt gasps, "Now--please, now--" He swallows hard. "I don't want to come until..."

Until they're both inside him, but something stops his voice, some vestige of shame or just embarrassment at how much he _needs_ this. They understand, though; Yennefer stops thrusting, resting almost the full length of her cock inside him, and gently urges Geralt up onto his knees so Jaskier can fit in beneath him. Slowly, awkwardly Geralt shifts so his legs are on either side of Jaskier's hips. The motion shifts Yen inside him, making him inhale sharply and her chuckle warmly and press a kiss behind his ear.

Jaskier rubs a fistful of oil up and down his stiff cock, which looks somehow larger than it ever has before. Geralt shuffles forward, leaning his hands forward onto Jaskier's chest for balance, and then he closes his eyes and tilts his head back against Yennefer's shoulder as Jaskier's fingers slip along his stretched opening.

"Oh," Jaskier sighs, working the tip of one finger in alongside Yen, "oh, Geralt, you're _so_ tight. Are you sure...?"

Geralt bites his lip and wills himself to relax. Jaskier's finger slips in deeper and he nods his head, eyes squeezed shut from the overwhelming sensation.

"Okay," Jaskier breathes, "okay, let me just..." 

And then Geralt feels it, the firm head of his cock nudging slowly, so slowly, past the tight ring of muscle, easing it open, wider and wider, as Jaskier pushes his way inside. Behind him Geralt can feel Yen's heart racing faster--from the sensation or from watching him he doesn't know, hopes for both. Yennefer loves to watch him, even more than Jaskier does, and Geralt loves being able to make her happy just by reacting, by giving himself over to pleasure.

It seems like an eternity of heat and stretching that dances on the edge of pain, but never goes over, before Geralt feels Jaskier bottom out, fully inside him--the both of them, _filling_ him--

"Fuck," he moans, overwhelmed by the thought almost as much as the sensation of it. "Fuck, fuck--" He lifts himself up on shaky thighs, groaning loudly in overwhelmed pleasure at the feeling of their two cocks sliding out of him, then in again, at the incredible feeling of _taking_ it.

"Gods," Jaskier croacks, clutching at Geralt's tightly-corded arms, "fuck, holy fuck, you're so tight I'm going to _die,_ Geralt--"

"So tight for us," Yennefer murmurs, breath shivering across his ear. "Making us feel so good, darling, you're so very good..."

Something halfway between a whine and a cry punches out of him, and he feels his cock jump--then again, when Jaskier wraps a shaking hand around it and starts to stroke.

"Go on now," Yennefer says, and punctuates her words with a firm thrust. "You want to come on our cocks, don't you? Come with both of us stuffing you full?"

"Yes, please, yes, please--" He works himself up and down a little faster.

"Come for us," Jaskier says, stroking him the way he knows will make Geralt come, and he does, helpless, clenching hard around the two cocks filling him up, sobbing out his pleasure as he spills across Jaskier's chest.

He only halfway hears it when Yennefer lets out a sharp cry, his senses fuzzy as he finishes, but he feels her short, hard thrusts go fast and uneven and knows she's coming, feels a heavy warm wash of satisfaction at making her feel good. Jaskier takes another minute, his hands digging tight into Geralt's hips as he thrusts up frantically, and it's all Geralt can do to hold himself up as Jaskier finishes, coming inside him in a burst of wet heat.

He doesn't hold himself up, really, after that. The lassitude he usually feels after satisfaction is far more intense than ever before, a wave of pure relaxation washing over him as Yennefer and Jaskier gently ease out of him; as they gently untie his hands and lower him to the mattress.

"Thank you," he manages, because it feels important, that he tell them. Jaskier, warm and close behind him, squeezes Geralt in his arms. Yennefer lies down beside him, facing him, and cups his face.

"Sleep, Geralt," she says, and he obeys.


End file.
